Author: Arsh Kabra

I recently rewatched The Dark Knight. I don’t think I’ll ever get bored. There are just so many layers to that movie, and I don’t think I can let it go without at least one blogpost for itself.

First of all, SPOILER ALERT!! This movie is one of the best movies you’re ever going to see. If you haven’t watched it, what are you waiting for? I’m going to spoil quite a few awesome parts of the movie, and I don’t want to do that if you haven’t seen it. I encourage you to stop reading this and watch it. It’s on Netflix.

I think it’s a masterpiece. From writing, to directing, to acting, it checks every box. Some people say that the action is hard to follow. To them I say, “You’re not trying hard enough.” I can follow the action in most movies of today. I think it’s a brilliant way to add tension to the scene, but we’re not here to debate about the action. I think there’s no debate when we say that The Dark Knight is the best superhero movie in existence.

Of course, I’m going to spend a lot of time on the Joker.

What a character!

I mean, he has one motivation – fun. Everything he’s doing, he’s doing for fun. He enjoys every explosion, and every bit of violence for which he is the cause. You can see the enjoyment in his eyes, and that is the beauty of this performance. Heath Ledger was a fantastic actor, and I’m really sorry for his death. I didn’t know of him when he died, but now, I could cry.

The Joker literally does not care. About anything. He is, in his own words, “an agent of chaos.” He wants chaos to reign, and that’s where everything stops for him. He will do anything for people to realize that chaos is the only constant. Whatever goes up, must come down. All good things must come to an end. He knows that the only way to do that is to bring down a highly respected person to his level. So he devises his plan.

He slowly brings Harvey Dent the the edge of madness, killing his girlfriend, burning his face, etc., but Dent still doesn’t give in. Then, in the hospital, Joker just boops him on the nose, and sends him falling into the great abyss of chaos. It’s so well thought out, and should be very depressing, but Nolan’s not going to leave you with a sour taste in your mouth. He wants you to stay in your seat and contemplate. He is not going to let you get up so fast. He wants you to blankly stare at the credits and think, Whoa.

Inception, The Prestige, Memento, and The Dark Knight all have the perfect endings. This one wants a happy ending. This one wants Batman to have at least one moment to shine. He takes the blame, and the people of Gotham still have hope. Hope. A hopeful ending. They’re usually the most perfect ones, but it has to be nailed.

You do exactly what Nolan asks, because he’s a genius. There’s no getting around that.

I’m just sitting at my computer and free writing. I just love this movie, and feel that it needs all the love it can get. I’d love to discuss it further, so feel free to discuss it in the comments! All opinions are welcome, but if you tell me that this movie is bad, expect a very, very long and angry response.

Alright, I’ve had enough of this.

I’ve wasted five months of my life mugging up words from textbooks, and am about to waste five more. I have no choice at this moment, but I still want to vent my rage somewhere.

The Indian Council of Secondary Education’s checking for the Board Papers happens in the following way: the papers are given to a “checker” who will have a list of keywords on her desk. In any given answer, this “checker” is to give marks based on the number of keywords she sees. After this is done, these papers go to another checker who does the actual checking. This checker sees if the answer is only a series of words, or an actual coherent sentence. However, the answer is not checked if all the keywords are not there. Only if a person writes all the keywords in a particular answer, will it be checked by this secondary checker, a person who actually knows what she’s doing. This checker’s verdict is the final one. After this woman gives a total, that’s what will be printed on this student’s marksheet. Nothing doing after this.

This system is flawed. The ICSE 10th board checking system is FLAWED. With this system, we are not raising “the leaders of tomorrow”. We are raising a hoard of people who can say, “Transpiration is the process of evaporative loss of water through the areal parts of a plant.” What is the use of this? Great! Transpiration is the evaporative loss of water, or whatever! Ask someone what “evaporative loss” means, and they respond with “I dunno. It’s not in the portion.” or “it’s not in the textbook.”

Now, the same answer could be written as, “Transpiration is the loss of water from the leaves and stem of any plant in the form of water vapour,” right? Makes sense, doesn’t it? It’s longer, but easier to remember, and it tells you what tranpiration really is. Logically speaking, it should get full marks, but noooo. ICSE wants you to write “process of evaporative loss” and “areal”. If both those words are there, then you get all your marks. Otherwise, you stick with whatever third-class college you get.

“O.K., fine,” I hear you say, “Just learn it with those words!”
To this, I respond, “With all due respect…” and laugh in your face.

Because it’s not just transpiration is it? There’s also osmosis, photosynthesis, pollution, pollutants, immunisation, vaccination, vaccine, chromosome, chromatid, gene, genetics, chordae tendinae, mitochondria, nucleus, mitosis, meiosis, and countless other definitions. Not to mention all the answers other than the definitions. Oh, also, if this wasn’t stressful enough, there’s also NINE OTHER SUBJECTS TO WORRY ABOUT!

Then you say, “Oh, those definitions are easy!”

Think again.

You forgot about the keywords.

It’s a full circle back to keywords.

Also, NINE OTHER SUBJECTS!

So, here’s my solution. Are you ready? Drumroll, please!

No more keywords. We hire people who actually know what they’re doing and have spent years of their lives dedicated to these subjects. These people are now full-time checkers.

Now, traditionally, these people will be teachers in other schools. They will have to quit their jobs, because there are probably a COLOSSAL number of out-of-work teachers waiting to get a job.

And what about the keyword-checkers? They go back to their regularly scheduled teaching lives. They’re all teachers, spending time in classrooms, doing what? Teaching.

Let them teach.

Meanwhile, the keywords are dead. Now, a student can answer in whatever kind of language they like, as long as it is coherent and gets the point across.

Also, any answers which are word-to-word from the textbook will result in negative marking.

Here’s why:
Mugging up DOES NOT EQUAL INTELLIGENCE.

If you can mug up words from the textbook, you just have a great memory. Most probably you have no clue what you’re talking about.

And parents? If your child scores full marks in everything, it does not mean that your child is smart. It just mean that he or she can mug things up from the textbook.

I know three or four legitimately smart people who get an average of 53% marks. On the other hand, I know four or five people who score about 96%, but when I ask them some logical, practical question, they’re blank.

It’s true that there are some people who score excellent marks, and know what they’re talking about. I know about five or six of those, too. Just know that if you have a kid who can score marks, it doesn’t mean anything. At least when you’re talking about the ICSE Boards.

Until and unless my system is adopted, the 10th board exams are not testing excellence, knowledge, intelligence, or skill. They’re merely testing memory, and memory can only get you so far.

But what do I know? I’m just a lousy fifteen year-old.

The bell rang. It wasn’t really a “ring”, it was a sort of personalized bugle noise. Probably composed by the Music teacher. She had composed a lot of songs. More than 80% of these were prayers, and that’s why nobody really liked her. Pramod stood up and joined the rest of the students in a bored chant of, “Good afternoon, and thank you ma’am,” and the teacher left. Pramod stuffed his books under his desk. He closed his black gel pen and stuffed it into his pouch. Closing the pouch, he threw it under the desk. He sat down and let his mind wander. He was simply staring at the door, but his ears were everywhere. This was exactly what he did between classes every day. Listening, but giving no indication that he was. He knew almost everything, but he acted clueless. He knew that Nakul, Manoj, Anika, and Lata were planning to watch that new war movie tomorrow. He smiled. They weren’t going to get the real beauty of that movie. Then his mind drifted to the war movie. To its director. To that director’s other movies. To an actor from one of the other movies, and the noise seemed to fade out as somehow, he managed to reach his favourite movie. He was thinking of the movie, of its acting, of its twist, of specific scenes, when he suddenly blurted out a dialogue, leaving the guy sitting next to him in utter confusion. He laughed, apologized, and then sighed, his eyes visibly glazed, his stare distant, as if he were thinking about his lady love. Man. That movie is SO good…

Then the food came rolling in. A metal table with an extension jutting out to put the plates on while serving yourself the food. Five tins of food sat there, as one servant opened them up and tossed the serving spoons inside. Pramod got up and walked over to the tins. Hovering over them, he felt the foul smell of the disgusting school food, all of it smelling as if it was at least a week old. He surveyed the food. Chapatis, rice, and – oh yay – chana. He rolled his eyes at the seeds of grain thrown into gravy and mixed sloppily. Did school even pay the cooks? The class teacher walked in. “Good morning, ma’am.” Pramod said.

The teacher replied with a simple “Come on, take a plate.” Pramod sighed. He grabbed a plate and thrust his hand inside the bowl of spoons, deliberately shaking his hand to and fro inside the bowl to create an irritating clanking noise. He hated his class teacher. If he failed this year’s board exam for any subject, be it one she did not teach, Pramod was blaming her. He tore open the packet of Chapatis and grabbed one. He took some chana and thrust it into his plate. It made an unpleasant slop. He went over to his desk and threw his plate onto it. He slumped into his chair and tore his Chapati apart.

Every bite he took was terrible. It was so bad, it didn’t even want to go into his mouth. Every piece taking forever to go inside, and when it did, it didn’t want to stay there. He felt like barfing three or four times with every bite. He felt as if he were eating magotty bread from Lord of the Rings. He smiled at himself for making that reference, and suddenly cried, “THREE STINKIN’ DAYS!” into the air, with the exact same accent as the orc, yet again utterly confusing the dude next to him.

He could hear each bite making a crunch sound, wondering whether a Chapati should be doing that. At long last, he had finished his Chapati, but his chana were still in his plate. He groaned and walked over to the tins again, deliberately making stomping sounds as he did. He REALLY hated school food.

12/105^BIS Boulevard de Grenelle,
Near St. Mont Piquet – Grenelle Station
Paris,
France

June 11, 2021.

Dear Commissariat de Police,

I am John Dameron, and this is a confession. I was at the Eiffel Tower on the 31^st of May. I was the one who killed most of your guards, and a few hundred innocent tourists from all over the world. I am your “terrorist”.

To be fair, I’m not a terrorist. I’m not ISIS. I’m not some kind of genius like in Agatha Christie books, looking to show off my genius. It really doesn’t take a genius to pull off what I did. I’m not the poor guy from Pakistan you’re currently chasing. Do your research. That guy’ll tell you that he’s never even been to Paris. No. I’m just Good Old Johnny.

It was painfully easy.

I walked into the Eiffel Tower, completely unchecked. I strolled in with a black backpack – full of guns. I put it on the table in front of no less than two bored guards, who told me to go through a metal detector. They didn’t check my bag. They didn’t check anything. They didn’t even touch my bag. I simply picked up my bag, hid behind one of the ticket counters to put on my mask, and lit the whole place on fire. I killed everyone in my sight.

As I write this, I can hear the screams that immediately came after I pulled the trigger. My finger didn’t come off the automatic’s trigger. It stayed there, and killed every one. EVERYONE.

When I close my eyes, I can see the splashes of blood as I ended the lives of people of all origins. People who only wanted to come to see what the fuss was all about. All they wanted there was to have a good time. And where are they now? Under the damn ground. They’re lying there. DEAD.

And you know what, I’ve been hearing your leaders talk about me, asking me how I can sleep. Here’s my reply: I can’t. And then you’d ask me why I did it. It’s because of you.

It’s because of you that I hear screaming children, wailing for their mothers and fathers to get up, as they watched blood fly from all over their bodies. Where are the children now? DEAD. Where are the parents now? DEAD!

It’s because of you that I see two lovers, who have come to the most cliché spot to celebrate love, run into each other’s arms, sharing one last kiss, as my bullets soared through their heads. Where is their love now? DEAD. Where are they now? DEAD!

It’s all because of YOU.

You might want to go back to the top of my letter. You might notice something. I just walked in. I SIMPLY WALKED IN, DO YOU COPY, LUNATICS? There is ZERO security to get there. Not to mention the lawn in front of the Tower. Some suicide bomber could just walk in, and set his bombs off and there are suddenly THREE HUNDRED DEAD! Not even on earthquake has that kind of a casualty count.

I haven’t mentioned all the people who got injured. Not many will survive.

Your guards didn’t stop me. I got in. Now, where are those guards? DEAD.

So come on over, I’m sitting right here. Inside the house mentioned above.

I’ll keep the wine ready.

A Violent Social Worker,
John Dameron

**This is an alternate ending to O’Henry’s  short story, “The Last Leaf.” To fully understand this post, you must read that first. Click here for a PDF of that story!

Sue bit her lip to stop herself from sobbing. The doctor had given her the odds. Her dearest friend had no chance. Johnsy showed no will to live. Nothing anyone could do could stop that last leaf. It was going to fall. There was nothing to be done about it. It would fall tonight. And so would Johnsy. “Some day I vill baint a masterpiece, and ve shal all go away.” Mr. Behrman had said. Oh, poor Mr. Behrman! How would he feel!

Sue had to admit that her only friend in this world was going to die. She found that she was unable to restrain herself. A tear rolled down her cheek, and she came away from the painting.

Mr. Behrman broke his pose. “Ms. Sue!” he cried, and ran to her side. He knelt down and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Ah, Ms. Sue! You must not worry! I vill baint de masterpiece, did I not tell you? I vill save poor little Ms. Yohnsy, did I not tell you?”
Sue couldn’t help but laugh. “Oh, Mr. Behrman.” she said, drying her tears. “I’m sorry. Please, I’m sorry, pose again,”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, please,”
“Ve can stop if you vant to.”
“No,” she said, a pleading look in her eyes. “Please, I – I just need to get my mind off this.”

But the painting did not help.

Behrman walked over to his blank canvas. There was only one way to save Johnsy. He looked out at the blizzard that was brewing. It was going to be cold. Colder than minus ten degrees Fahrenheit. He picked up his brush, and walked over to his room. He opened his cupboard, and removed his paints. It was time for his masterpiece.

Behrman walked outside and was instantly showered with snow. His hands were shivering, his teeth chattering, and his face, red. He had four layers of clothes on but it did not help. He had even covered his nose and head with a scarf. Nothing stopped the cold from gripping each inch of his body in its icy grasp, sucking every ounce of heat he had left in him. He walked until he reached the ivy vine. He stared down at the bane of Johnsy’s existance – the last leaf. He had to make an equal. He studied the features of the leaf for what felt like forty-five minutes, after which he set it down and took out a pencil. He began slowly with an outline of how the leaf would look, but he was shivering furiously. He began opening a bottle of paint, which fell out of Behrman’s hands. He muttered swear words as he dipped the brush into the bottle. He began painting.

Behrman felt so cold, that he felt warm. Hypothermia was setting in, closing its fingers around his brain, and slowly taking out reason. He was no longer shivering. His paint bottle kept slipping from his hand. He put his brush down and began unzipping his top layer – a jacket. His brain was shutting down. The inner jacket was not enough to keep him warm. He picked up his brush and fell to the ground, shivering. He started to get up, but he was too dizzy. He wanted to sleep. Hypothermia now delivered its final blow, as Behrman picked up his brush and brought it to the wall. He was breathing heavily, but Hypothermia had caught him upon the hip. He fell against the wall, making a big green line that completely ruined it all, and Behrman slumped to the ground with a last sigh.
Inside, Sue lay awake, tears streaming down her face.

When Sue awoke from an hour’s sleep the next morning, she found Johnsy with dull, wide-open eyes staring at the drawn green shade. “Pull it up! I want to see,” she ordered in a whisper.
Wearily, Sue obeyed.

The last leaf had fallen. In its place was poorly drawn graffiti.

“I thought so,” Johnsy said, “My time has come.”
“No,” Sue said quietly, shamelessly letting the tears roll down her eyes. “No, Joanna! No! You can’t do this to me!”
“I’m sorry Sudie,” Johnsy said, as she slumped into the bed, putting her hands on her chest, “It’s just the way it is.”
“No, no, NO! Johnsy! Joanna, please!” Sue’s tears were now drenching her night dress. But Johnsy wasn’t listening.